


Tomorrow We'll Go Back to Our Sides (But Tonight I Need Some Warmth)

by thecopperkid



Series: so good at being in trouble, so bad at being in love [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dirty Talk, Frat Boy Billy, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Recreational Drug Use, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, soft boy Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 01:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13870257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecopperkid/pseuds/thecopperkid
Summary: “Billy. She’s my friend.”“Even hotter,” Billy says huskily. “Just tell me what it was like.”“Isn’t this kind of weird?”“It’s only weird if you make it weird,” he says, nonchalant as ever. Steve wonders how he manages that.*Steve's just trying to enjoy his Friday night alone and stoned when Billy brazenly sends him a picture of his dick. Dirty talk ensues.





	Tomorrow We'll Go Back to Our Sides (But Tonight I Need Some Warmth)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Kills' "Siberian Nights."
> 
> Hit me up if you want to yell some more about these two.

Getting a good high felt like drowning. At least, that’s what Steve Harrington thinks as he begins his drive home from wine night at Nancy’s honors dorm across campus, when he’s feeling unusually perceptive and philosophical. He imagines himself at the bottom of a deep pool, the world moving just a bit slower than usual, quieter too. His lungs feel tight like he can’t get enough air, a strangely pleasant pressure against his chest. 

Hot boxing and listening to Mac Demarco in the back parking lot of the school — it isn’t lost on Steve how unoriginal his behavior is. Yet it wouldn’t be wine night if he didn’t finish off with it. Steve could only sit around feigning interest in Nancy’s communications major gossip for so long until he had to go outside to be a degenerate for a while. Jonathan always eagerly tagged along.

Tonight, they had passed a crudely fashioned joint back and forth by the dash lighting in his car while Mac crooned softly over the speakers. Steve had ripped the mango-printed thing unceremoniously, rattling out coughs on the exhale.

He thought about what Jonathan would say to Nancy when he went inside smelling strongly, wondered if she’d roll her eyes at him, tell him it was bad for his health. She used to tell Steve as much.

Now with Jonathan long gone as he peers anxiously at the blaring fluorescent lights in the lobby of his hall, he begins to regret not taking their session to the trails in the woods, or the bleachers by the baseball field. He at least could’ve blasted the heat and rolled down the windows on the way home so he wouldn’t be reeking of weed, but here he was, getting lazy. If the R.A. on duty decided not to be so nice this time, Steve could kiss his spot on the basketball team goodbye.

He discovers he’s already got the spins as soon as he sets foot out of the BMW, which is just great. He shoves his tightly balled fists in the pockets of his olive bomber and tries to breathe normally, because suddenly all he can notice is how alien he sounds.

Steve keys in to the lobby without a hitch, skates by the front desk with his eyes trained on the elevator, but is greeted by the old doors squealing open to reveal his own R.A. with her wicker laundry basket heading to the basement. She scrunches her freckled nose up in frustration and jabs a black nail against the close button more times than necessary. It’s either ride in the wrong direction pressed uncomfortably close to the one girl washing her clothes at 12 AM on a Friday, or take four flights of stairs.

He probably could use the exercise, anyway, he decides.

While the entrance felt stark white and suffocating, getting into the stairwell has Steve feeling almost like a fish rejoining a stream. Trickling down is the light pulse of music somewhere above him, some muffled shouting and shrieking, and it all just sits right with his state of mind, lets him disappear.

The top floor is a little quieter, but not by much. When it was time to sign up for housing, Steve was lucky enough to land a single on the end of the hall by the stairs, which is the perfect spot to observe, to listen, and at times like this, escape. A neatly-crafted construction paper hot air balloon dangling on the front of his door reads _Steve_ in Sharpie. Of fucking course the balloon itself is decorated with mint and pink paisley.

After he gets inside and plugs in his softly glowing Christmas lights, he’s shrugging off his jacket while toeing out of his Sperrys so nothing stands between him and his mini fridge. He’s ready to crack into whatever random light beer his 21-year-old teammate had snagged for him (the liquor stores in the college town would recognize a fake ID a mile away), play some fucking Nintendo, and just get drunk by himself. 

But then his phone is buzzing in the pocket of his joggers, and he’s expecting it’s a complaint from Nancy telling him what a bad influence he is —  until he’s gulping out of the Corona bottle, staring down the neck of it as he holds his phone up to his face. 

Billy fucking Hargrove?

A photo, no less, which is the weird part. A text from Billy wasn’t that strange on its own, seeing as they occasionally encountered each other on the court, brushed shoulders in general education courses, took shots at the same parties.

Their history in high school was complicated, though. A lot of beating the fucking shit out of each other and ratting each other out for weed or other assorted contraband. It was always a little odd, a little too tense and explosive, like they couldn’t stay apart. 

Steve’s first year at college as a business major was a success, owing largely to the fact that he was drunk for a good half of it. Even better, college girls seemed to want to fuck Steve maybe even more than high school girls did. 

Then Billy showed up the year after. (Unluckily for Steve, pretty much everyone from his town ended up at the same school because it was close, easy.) They happened to nail the same scholarship for basketball, which meant they were going to be getting pretty cozy. Steve mostly tried to avoid Billy’s tornado as best he could, but being on the same team ensured at least a little verbal abuse from Billy regarding Steve’s lack of skill — which, Steve would have you know, was total bullshit.

But ever since Billy became a brother at Fiji, they’d been almost _cool_. Sometimes even _friendly._ Like maybe Billy’s entire school career, all he had needed was an outlet for his volatile alpha male energy. Now that he’d gotten it, he’d leave Steve alone, like he wasn’t a pressing threat anymore. Steve didn’t want to jinx this truce.

Steve’s so close to just putting the text out of mind, zoning out to the rest of Mac’s _Another One_ , but he can’t help himself from wondering what the fuck Billy wants. 

Before he has time to make a real decision, his phone is lighting up again, buzzing impatiently on the wooden desk. A “(2),” then a “(3)” appear next to Billy’s name.

He takes another swig and swipes open, _fucking try me Billy_ , all smug, and suddenly that’s stripped away when his synapses catch up to his eyes enough for him to realize _he’s looking at Billy’s cock_. 

The picture is — well, it’s a little blurry, and taken without flash in yellowish lighting. Steve’s definitely pulled the trigger once or twice in the toilet that is lurking in the corner of the photo, so he knows it’s a bathroom at Billy’s frat, Fiji (of which Steve does not know the actual Greek letters to, despite the fact that the only shirts Billy will wear have the letters plastered to them). And it’s like, this dick isn’t the worst thing he’s ever seen. It’s actually pretty awesome. It’s really thick and kind of tan and curves to one side. He’s showered alongside Billy before at practice, he’s seen _it_ in passing before, so why does this feel so scandalous? This context is different and uncomfortably intimate, he reasons, which explains why he’s found himself almost choking on his mouthful of beer. 

“Fuck that wasnt for u harrigton,” the first text beneath it says.

“Swear to god tht was for a bitch in psych,” says the second.

Steve freezes. Wishes he’d had his read receipts turned off. Wishes he’d just started up some Mario Kart and avoided further interaction. There’s a lot to unpack in just those two sentence fragments, butchered as they are.

A few minutes tick by, and Steve’s starting to notice he has stifling cottonmouth. Whether its from the weed or from the shock, he’s not sure, but he’s somehow convinced himself that beer is hydrating, and is subsequently chugging the rest of the bottle. He clanks it down onto his desk, squatting in the chair to muss a hand through his hair dejectedly.

What the fuck does he say?

The smart thing to do, no, the _right_ thing to do, is to let it slide and have another drink. He can just say, “No worries, bro,” and they’ll both forget by Monday.

But his heart is pounding and he’s afraid to think it, but he kind of felt a thrill from seeing the picture. 

One thing is for certain, and it’s that he needs another drink.

Steve pops open a beer and takes a contemplative sip, hiking his legs up to rest them on the desk. A little gray bubble signals that Billy has begun typing, making Steve’s stomach flip over, but then the bubble fades again after a moment.

He scraps four equally awkward attempts before settling on, “it’s fine, dude. wyd?” He sends it quickly before he can hate himself.

It’s taken all night. Or like, at least an hour, Steve’s not quite sure. No response. Steve’s thinking the token frat boy tapped out early tonight. He has given up on Billy, and at this point he’s fucking drunk because one more drink always lead to another after that, and the six pack he’d intended to last him two nights’ worth of getting buzzed was now completely depleted. Now he’s just laying in the dark, trying not to resent himself so much.

Steve should have known better. The text was an _accident_ , for fuck’s sake, Billy said it himself. 

And just look at the two of them. Billy was an unabashed, trashy frat guy who listened to grunge rock, did cocaine and got in at least one fist fight a weekend, the latter usually because he’d fucked someone else’s girlfriend. Steve was try-hard psychedelic pop, printed Patagonia fleeces and Rayban Wayfarers. He used his fake ID to order mimosas at his parents’ country club. They were from completely different walks of life, sharing only two interests — getting stoned and playing basketball. It wasn’t like there was some deeper connection there.

But then Steve’s phone gives a violent buzz, and he nearly flings it to the floor with enthusiasm.

“U up.”

God, really? Is that even a question?

He feels no shame when he texts back inhumanly fast this time. “yeah what’s up?”

“I sorry.” It’s like the guy has no concept of grammar. Steve huffs a sigh, his heart still racing.

The shrill screech of FaceTime nearly scares the shit out of Steve. He scrambles around, fixing his hair, plugging his lights back in, looking in the mirror across from his bed in a last ditch effort to make himself look presentable. If there’s one thing Steve hates, it’s spontaneous video chat.

He answers.

The screen is sort of dark at first but Billy’s outline appears as he jostles the phone into place. It’s loud beyond his room, godawful electronic music thumping and people shouting over it at each other. Billy’s holding his phone at eye level, grinning lazily as he lays back in bed, blonde curls fanning out on the pillow. The screen cuts off right around his neck, and Steve can see that as usual, he doesn’t have a shirt on.

He’s likely bare below the waist too, Steve thinks dumbly. He says it aloud without really meaning to.

“Dude, are you fucking naked?”

“Sorry to break it to you, Harrington,” comes Billy’s low voice, the gruffness probably a result of smoking all night. He momentarily flips the camera down and shows Steve that he’s wearing tight blue basketball shorts. Billy’s still got that predatory look in his eye when he resurfaces, his pearly canines glimmering even in the low light. “Not disappointed, are you?”

Steve’s cheeks heat up, but he tries to cover himself. “ _No_. Just amazed that you dressed up so nice for me.” And if that’s a little flirty, well, it’s the Corona talking, obviously.

“Where were you tonight?” Billy asks, rolling onto his side. “Should have come over. You missed it. I made Wheeler’s little brother hit my bong.”

“Jesus Christ, Billy, how did he get there? How old is that kid again?”

“Old enough to show up to our party and fucking rip it, let him live, _mom_ ,” Billy slurs, smug. “ _I_ didn’t bring him here. And what is he? Like, fifteen? This is the time when life really begins, _Steve_. When I was his age I used to cut health class to smoke pot and get blowjobs behind the gym.”

Steve laughs. “From who?”

“Bunch’a sluts. It would probably be easier to count who didn’t suck me off.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. But now he’s thinking about Billy’s dick again. Picturing how Billy’s face looks when he’s getting sucked. How he probably keeps his eyes open the whole time, watches his cock disappearing into the girl’s mouth, transfixed by the impression it makes in the side of her cheek, and grabs a fistful of her hair to push her down deeper.

“I’m serious,” Billy emphasizes. The sly smile slips off Billy’s face. He looks offscreen, away from his phone, like he can’t begin while still making eye contact. He speaks slowly. “Anyway. I just wanted to make sure we were cool. That you weren’t, like, sellin' that picture online or getting me in trouble with the school or some shit. Fuck, I don’t know.”

He’s trying for humor, Steve can discern, but it’s mostly just awkward. Steve’s not sure what to say in response so he just stares, runs a hand through his hair.

“Anyway,” Billy repeats himself quickly. He sits up suddenly. “I should probably go back downstairs, but yeah, thanks, I guess—”

“Wait,” Steve is saying, suppressing the wince at the fact that _oh my God he’s doing this_. This is one of those times, Steve thinks, where it’s better to just let it drop. The screen is still blurry and dark until Billy flips on a light to get a beer, then pops on screen as he props the phone so it’s facing him where he lies on his side.

“What’s up, you lonely already? I told you, you should’a come over, still can,” he insists, his hand supporting his head as he sips from the can. This position makes his bicep bulge, Steve notes. “I’m a hell of a wingman. Could get you laid for once.”

Steve ignores the diss, and he’s a little skeptical of Billy trying to get anyone laid but himself. The thing that’s really concerning him is that he can’t tell if he’s just horny from being so drunk or if Billy’s body actually looks that good. His dick is hard just trying not to think about getting hard. He shifts in his joggers, embarrassed.

“I’m too wasted to leave. But you should stay,” Steve tries. He ruts against his hand. “If you want to, I mean. We can still talk.”

Billy’s actually laughing now. “Yeah? You wanna talk to me, huh? Usually you want nothing to do with me.”

Steve’s ditched subtlety, doesn’t even hide it when he uses his free hand to shove his joggers to his thighs, releasing his long cock. He tugs frustratedly at it. The friction is _everything_. “I never said that.”

There’s a pause as they sit there looking at each other, making it increasingly clear that the tone has changed. It seems like this was bound to happen, like Steve couldn’t have stopped it even on his best behavior, he just feels this energy when he thinks about Billy. He’s annoyingly everything Steve’s not, which drives him fucking nuts, but also makes him obsessed with what Billy’s doing. Steve would deny it, but he finds himself always watching Billy intently as he works the machines at the gym, or when he plays beer pong on the lawn of Fiji, his bare chest shiny with sweat and beer as he sloshes the contents of a red cup down his chin. 

And it’s like, Billy is a _lot_ of things, but if there’s one thing Billy’s not, it’s a fucking idiot. A dangerous glint in his eyes as he watches his screen makes it apparent Billy knows what’s going on. The tell is likely that Steve’s shoulder has begun jerking slightly underneath the fabric of his Vampire Weekend t-shirt

“So, you know I gotta ask,” Billy brings up suddenly. “About Wheeler. That whole _thing_.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Steve says, a little irritated. Does it always have to be a competition with Billy?

“Dude, her little prude act is fucking cute, it makes her seem like she’s just begging to be fucked — can you blame me?” Billy bites his lip in a smile, clearly amused he’s making Steve squirm. Steve doesn’t take what Billy says about Nancy seriously, because they’re both fucked up and  he’s just so _horny_. “Besides. I thought you were into her. Thought you guys were fucking.”

“We were together,” Steve corrects. “But not anymore.” He’s not rubbing his cock anymore, just holding it a little uncertainly.

The camera on Billy’s end focuses intently on the ceiling for a moment as Billy sets his beer down, rejoining Steve when he pushes his back to the headboard of his bed.

Billy’s voice is a little darker when he speaks this time. “What was it like,” he prompts. “Her pussy, I mean.”

“Billy. She’s my friend.” 

“Even hotter,” Billy says huskily. “Just tell me what it was like.”

“Isn’t this kind of weird?”

“It’s only weird if you make it weird,” he says, nonchalant as ever. Steve wonders how he manages that. “C’mon. Tell me what it was like. It’s only fair. I told you all about Tina.”

“I didn’t _ask_ ,” Steve defends. “You just never shut the fuck up at practice.”

“Exactly. You’re a better man than me, Steve Harrington. Dude. How _was_ it.”

There’s a beat before Steve gives in. “Good,” he breathes. He licks his hand and begins rubbing again.

“How good, Steve,” he presses back. His voice is softer than usual. “Talk about her.” And it’s obvious now from his facial expressions, Billy’s fisting his own cock too. His brows are furrowed together and his usually tense jaw is hanging slack.

“She’s fucking tight,” Steve finally blurts, eyes almost rolling back into his head at the contact. “So fucking tight when I put my dick inside her.”

“Fuck. Bet you made her take it from behind. Bet your cock barely fit inside her.”

“Yeah,” Steve muses. He’s more confident, encouraged by Billy’s slow, heavy breathing, the way his normally intense blue eyes have glazed over. “And she was super wet. Like, dripping through her panties for my dick.”

“Where did you come?” Billy asks, breathless. Steve stares at the way his full lips are parted, his tongue curving up out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“On her face.”

“No way,” Billy marvels a little sarcastically. “Didn’t think the princess would be into that. So, are you gonna show it to me or not?”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, then pauses, hesitant.

“Your dick, Steve,” he clarifies in impatience. “I know you already saw mine.”

“I _know_ ,” Steve says, indignant. He’s awkward and clumsy, feeling stupid as he flips the camera around so it’s facing his cock. It’s longer than it is thick, wet and slightly flushed. He sheepishly taps the screen back to his face.

“Damn,” Billy drawls. “It’s fuckin’ big.”

“You think so?” He knows it is, but it sounds so much better out of Billy’s mouth. Something about being validated by Billy made it _better_. Steve’s panting slightly now, uneven as he gets closer. The backs of his thighs are tingling and it’s like his skin is on fire.

“Fuck, yeah. Yeah, yeah, say something else.”

“Huh.”

“Steve, _talk_ to me,” Billy repeats, almost a whisper. “I’m close.”

“Uh, I wanna touch you,” Steve gushes, a little desperate. He needs this. “I want you to fuck my throat. Make me gag on your dick — fuck.”

Steve revels in the way Billy practically whines at what he says.

“I wanna come so bad,” Billy’s growling back. “Wanna come on your cock, all over it.” The words surge straight to Steve’s own dick, and he grunts at the thought. 

Billy looks so fucking good to Steve right now. His skin is shining with sweat, and his hair has darkened a shade, damp around his strained neck. His full bottom lip is clenched between perfect white teeth as he fucks his hand. His lashes flutter a little bit, and his face scrunches up as he groans low in the back of his throat. And seriously? Now Billy’s turning the camera around to his cock so Steve can see it leaking everywhere, messy on his fist as he strokes himself, groaning obscenely in between shaky breaths.

He just watched Billy Hargrove fucking come, and that’s impossible for Steve to process. Billy looks blissed out when his face returns onscreen.

“Jesus, Billy, I’m so close, I’m gonna — gonna — ”

“Fuck, yeah, Steve, come for me.” His gravelly voice forces Steve over the edge.

For the second time in the past four hours, he feels like he’s drowning, his head swimming as pleasure rises up through his body, warm and fluttering. His eyes are squeezed shut by the force of it as he chokes out a moan. Come spurts all over his chest, stark against the black of his shirt. The feeling is unreal, it’s perfect — he’s high, he’s drunk, and he’s blowing his load from jerking off with Billy. Steve almost can’t believe it’s reality. He fucks his fist until he can’t take it, his hips stuttering in protest from the intensity.

Spent, Steve just sort of sinks into his cloud of blankets as he collects himself. He’s coming down from the euphoria but unable to shake the fear of what comes next. 

Billy’s the first to break the silence. 

“Look, I should probably be going.” 

Steve was expecting that, but it sounds so much worse out loud. Feels worse than when a girl he’s actually into peaces out of his room at six in the morning, the sheets behind his back cold in her absence. 

“I gotta go, too,” Steve says a little too defensively to mask disappointment, though it’s probably no secret to Billy that he's got nothing better to do. He just wants to disappear through the floor. 

But Billy doesn’t hang up right away, he’s still looking at Steve through heavy-lidded eyes. “If you wanna come blaze tomorrow night,” he offers. “Then come through.” He’s shrugging as an afterthought, noncommittal.

Steve doesn’t really know how that’s going to go down once they’ve sobered up tomorrow morning, but he’s nodding despite himself. He’s kind of in disbelief that Billy wants to even hang out with him in the first place. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, I’m down.”

They say their goodbyes and Billy’s gone. Steve peels off his shirt carefully and discards it on the floor, then drops all his weight onto his pillow, exhausted. He stares at the ceiling blankly, wondering why he has to be such a fucking idiot, but the endorphins sweep him up in tides pulling him toward sleep before he can beat himself up too much.

And it’s the best rest he’s gotten in a long, long time.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Tomorrow We'll Go Back to Our Sides (But Tonight I Need Some Warmth)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14974832) by [puttingoutthelantern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/puttingoutthelantern/pseuds/puttingoutthelantern)




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